


Grossly Undeserved

by summerofspock



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cadet Spock (Star Trek), Humor, M/M, Professor Jim, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 19:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21081959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: James T. Kirk, highly recommended Starfleet Academy professor and certified mess.





	Grossly Undeserved

**Author's Note:**

> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom) who, in our discussions of this fic, gave me the lovely epigraph you see below
> 
> inspired vaguely by a tumblr post asking where are all the professor jim fics?

_The love between them is that of a scientist and their petri dish. - wingittofreedom_

* * *

Spock was not excited. 

_ Excitement _ indicated emotion, and while Vulcans were not entirely emotionless, an enthusiastic feeling such as excitement was not possible for those of his heritage. Despite this, Spock could admit to experiencing a certain degree of...intellectual anticipation for his first class of the term.

He had heard from several of the other cadets that Advanced Field Tactics and Negotiation as taught by recent graduate Jim Kirk was the class that changed their perspective of Starfleet and what it would mean to serve on a starship. Diplomacy was not Spock’s strong suit, despite his father’s post as ambassador. His father’s disposition was one of many things he had not inherited. He preferred the unmoving foundation of facts and calculations. They did not depend on such variables as the emotional response of an unknown party or such skills as _ persuasion _ and _ charm _ which Spock believed were tantamount to lying and therefore unvulcan.

It was Spock’s anticipation that woke him early on the first Monday of spring term and he got ready for the day with higher than normal efficiency, completing his ablutions 1.4 minutes ahead of schedule. 1.35, in all technicality, because he adjusted his bangs twice—an unhealthy concession to his nerves.

When he entered the classroom he found it much like any other at the Academy, wide fronted with a flickering display behind an old durasteel desk. Some professors preferred to teach behind the barrier of the desks. Others eschewed them entirely. Spock wondered what sort of professor Kirk would be. If he came so highly recommended, surely he would be the sort to defer to the professional barrier a desk could provide.

According to his preference, Spock took a seat in the front of the room and set his padd in front of him. He ignored the urge to fiddle with his stylus as the seconds ticked by and other students began to arrive.

A cadet he recognized from Xenobotany—Cadet Farrar—took the seat next to him and greeted him affably. Spock did not understand this human tendency towards maintaining acquaintance, but he was polite, as his mother had taught him to be. It was unlikely a true overture of friendship as humans tended to be uncomfortable with Spock’s Vulcan behavior.

The clock ticked past the eight o’clock hour and with it, Spock’s mouth tilted into a minuscule frown. The professor was late.

At 8:16, his classmates began to grow restless, a hum of whispers spreading through the room, all of them voicing Spock’s own thoughts.

“Should we just leave?”

“I heard good things about this class…”

“Did you check your messages? Maybe he’s sick.”

Just as the clock hit 8:20 and the more irritated cadets had put away their materials, the door to the classroom whooshed open and the most unkempt man Spock had ever seen stumbled in. 

Despite his black professor’s uniform, Spock could not find it in himself to believe this was the highly lauded Professor Kirk, hair a golden mess plastered over his forehead with a lankness that indicated it had not been washed for some time. His wire-rimmed glasses were askew and he somehow gave the appearance of tripping despite moving in a straight line to the desk, coffee cup in hand, each step dribbling the brown liquid over his hand. The man hissed with each drop. 

“Sorry, sorry,” the man said, putting his cup down on the desk into a puddle of coffee that had already formed beneath it as he swung his shoulder bag onto the ground and sighed, wiping his hand down his half-zipped uniform absentmindedly.

The room was eerily silent as the man wheeled the squeaking chair out from behind the desk and sat down heavily, in a manner akin to a newborn foal, legs giving out beneath him, splaying in two directions at once. Spock found himself unable to look away.

“Introductions,” the man said. “I’ll start. I’m Jim Kirk and yep, the rumors are true, I’m 26. I prefer Kirk or Jim. Please don’t call me professor. It gives me the heebie jeebies.”

A girl tittered from the back of the room and the man—Kirk—broke into a lopsided smile, the lines about his mouth turning into grooves far too deep for his professed 26 years of age. Spock stared.

“Let’s go around the room. State your name, track, and why you’re in this class.”

Kirk pointed seemingly at random to a far seat at the right of the room and the girl sat up straight, her black hair shifting in her high ponytail. “Cadet Uhura, Communications, I’m here because I heard good things.”

She sounded doubtful as she said the last few words and Spock secretly agreed with the unspoken sentiment.

“Uhura. No first name?” It was said with a slightly teasing air but before the cadet could retort, he moved on down the line.

The class was full and Spock half-listened as the cadets listed their names. He recognized a few like Farrar beside him and Scott who was sitting in the middle of the room.

When it came down to Spock, Kirk was leaning back in his chair with one foot on the desk as he slurped at his coffee, occasionally dribbling it on his white undershirt and seemingly not caring or perhaps simply not noticing.

“You?” Kirk asked, gesturing vaguely in his direction.

“Spock, Science, I am...not sure why I am here.”

“Never had a Vulcan in class before,” Kirk said mildly as if commenting on the weather and it made something inside Spock prickle.

“Well, good enough for today, don’t you think?” Kirk said, practically leaping from his chair. “I’ll send out the syllabus. Please review it. Class will be mostly discussion based with a few papers.”

A few hands shot up and Kirk waved them off. “Read the syllabus.”

He grabbed his bag and left the room. The cadets looked around, sharing a confused look as Spock packed his bag and determinedly marched from the classroom. He needed to speak with his advisor.

* * *

“You can’t just drop a class because you think the professor is weird,” Pike said reasonably.

“Those were not my words.”

“But that was what you meant.”

Spock pursed his lips. Pike was a satisfactory mentor, but occasionally he was _ frustrating _ to deal with. 

Pike, knowing Spock well enough to recognize the expression, sighed. “Look, Kirk is a very good teacher. I know he’s a bit...unorthodox but you have to give him a chance. I truly think you’ll learn a lot.”

Spock wanted to sigh and perhaps complain but instead he said, “Very well.”

He trusted Pike’s wisdom. Perhaps he _ would _ learn something.

* * *

Spock did not learn anything. 

Kirk’s class went on in the same manner for several days. Spock had Advanced Field Tactics and Negotiation three times a week for 1.5 hours but the class rarely lasted that long. After the first class where they only managed introductions, the next was a review of questions from the syllabus. Friday’s class was cancelled and when Monday came, overcast and foggy as spring in San Francisco tended to be, Spock had very low expectations.

He’d done the reading, which he found exceedingly emotional, the fictional journal of a starship captain making contact with alien races. It was hardly theory and Spock found it unbefitting of an academy-sanctioned curriculum. 

Kirk’s appearance, when he in fact did arrive, did not inspire Spock with any more confidence.

He arrived late again, looking rumpled as if he had just left his bed. His golden hair was matted on one side and his jacket was fully unzipped, revealing a partially stained white undershirt. The discoloration under his eyes belied a certain sleeplessness, but instead of coffee, he came into the classroom with a ceramic bowl and a spoon. The bowl was filled with...cereal. Although if it was cereal, it was unlike any Spock had ever seen. 

He dropped into the chair behind the desk and the spoon clinked against the side of the bowl while he surveyed the classroom. “So who wants to start?” he asked around a mouthful of the brightly colored, round food that Spock highly doubted contained any nutritional value.

“Start what?” Farrar asked from Spock’s side, expressing the confusion of the room.

“The discussion,” Kirk said, still chewing. The spoon clinked again. “About the reading.”

It was silent for a moment before Uhura raised her hand and cleared her throat. Kirk nodded at her.

“Captain Blackswood seemed very dramatic.”

Kirk guffawed and a bit of half-chewed cereal hit the desk. Spock flinched.

“Och aye, can’t help but agree,” Scott said from his usual seat in the middle of the classroom. 

“Ah c’mon! He was fucking hilarious,” Kirk said, pushing his now finished cereal aside.

A human cadet with dark blue hair behind Spock said, “It made him a volatile negotiator.”

“Ah,” Kirk said, standing up and coming around the desk to sit on the edge. One of his shoelaces was untied, the other shoe was missing them entirely. “I see you’ve seen through my ruse. Right to the heart of the topic at hand. Negotiation. What did you think of his first contact style?”

Farrar leaned forward. “He didn’t have respect for the cultures he was encountering.”

A cadet scoffed from the far side of the room. “What about representing Earth culture? Blackswood was nothing if not human.”

“Representation is important but not to the detriment of the receiving culture,” Uhura pointed out. “As representatives of Starfleet, we are required to operate under the tenants of cultural sensitivity.”

The same cadet leaned forward in their chair. “Ok. Well, what if an alien civilization sacrifices a newborn once a month as part of their belief system. Does that fall under the bounds of your cultural sensitivity?”

“You can’t be culturally sensitive in a situation where harm can befall someone,” another voice argued from the back of the class.

“What about cannibalism? No harm done there,” Farrar asked, inserting herself into the conversation. “Even in Earth history that was a cultural norm in some societies. What if they want you to join in a cannibalistic ritual?”

“There has to be some way to avoid compromising our values like that,” an Andorian cadet said, sounding unnerved.

“What if there isn’t?” Kirk asked, interrupting the back and forth as he uncrossed his arms.

Spock heard a universal inhalation as the class paused. He turned to look at Professor Kirk and saw that same smile flickering over the corner of his mouth, a flash of emotion in his eyes that was impossible to read behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

“An important part of our job is to know where our personal line of moral relativity lies. What values are you willing to put aside? We all have boundaries. It’s easy to say that we need to be culturally sensitive. And it’s true. We aren’t colonizers. There is no manifest destiny here. But we have to maintain a semblance of self even as we encounter new peoples, change our beliefs, and learn about ourselves.”

A few students nodded eagerly and Spock found himself feeling...something, a pressure in his chest like he wanted to say something but did not know what. 

“Your assignment for today is to write a five page essay on an ethical dilemma that I assign to you. I expect you to address the issues of moral relativism, cultural sensitivity, and personal values.”

“When is it due?” someone chimed in.

“Check the syllabus,” Kirk said, standing up and knocking into the desk with his hip before he picked up his bowl, slopping the milk onto his pants. “Shit,” he said quietly.

The classroom filled with snorts and giggles while Kirk gave them a sheepish smile before finishing packing up and taking his leave. The rest of his classmates followed.

Spock stared at the front of the room for 3.65 minutes before standing up and leaving the classroom. 

* * *

Spock looked at his mark and couldn’t stop the frown from coming over his face. 

67/100.

A failing grade.

Spock had been attending one form of school or another since he was 3 years old. And he had never received anything less than a 90%, excepting his meditation class when he was 6 before he had adequately mastered the enhanced techniques to suppress the emotions generated by his human heritage. 

Nostrils flaring as he purposefully relaxed his fingers where they were clenched around the copy of his essay (a paper copy that Kirk had demanded), he read the notes Kirk had made, forced to once more regard the brown, wrinkled stains lining the edge of the paper.

_ You’re writing is technicaly proficient. Purpose of essay: express your opinons on the requirements of cultural senstivity in a starfleet officer. you addressed your assign issue and said pros v. cons, however no personal response or how’d you react if it actually happened. _

Putting aside the document, Spock pulled up Kirk’s oft mentioned syllabus (also riddled with typos) and scrolled to the posted office hours. 

Spock breathed out slowly. He had several questions for James Kirk and he wanted them answered.

* * *

Spock approached Kirk’s office and knocked on the door. To his surprise he heard a polite “Come in!”

It was fifteen minutes before Kirk’s posted office hours and Spock had half-expected him to be late. Or not show up at all.

When the door swung open, he saw Kirk sitting behind a desk that showed signs of violent use, its sides riddled with indentations as if it had been moved far too many times with too little consideration for its structure. Spock knew Starfleet tended to give old equipment to new professors, but with it’s three battered legs (where the fourth leg should have been, there was a stack of books) even Spock thought perhaps this particular piece of furniture should be retired. 

Kirk was sitting behind it, eyes focused on a padd in front of him as he bit into a half-eaten green apple, flesh already browned with oxidation on one side, as though it had been set down and forgotten at least once. Looking up from behind his glasses, the wire rims cutting his bright blue irises in half, Kirk gave him a welcoming smile. “You’re here about your paper, aren't you?”

“Correct,” Spock said with a short nod, unsure if he should sit in the chair with the stack of padds or the chair holding Kirk’s bag.

Kirk stood and pulled the bag away, gesturing for him to sit with one hand as he tossed the apple core at the cycler. He missed, and the apple core fell to the ground. Kirk made no move to pick it up.

“Alright,” Kirk said when he took his seat once more, slipping off his glasses and folding the temples back before putting them in his front pocket. He looked marginally more put together than he did during class. He’d put a human cosmetic product in his hair that produced a definitive shape instead of the usual haphazard tangle. Unfortunately, that was the only improvement. His uniform jacket was discarded in the corner of the room and his undershirt was threadbare, the collar so stretched that it revealed his clavicle. There was a purple stain on the belly.

Without his glasses, Kirk’s eyes were sharp and intelligent and Spock suddenly felt unprepared for the discussion at hand. “What questions do you have?”

Spock launched into the argument he had repeated to himself in the fresher that morning. “The topic you assigned me was inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate how?” Kirk asked, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over the slight swell of his belly. 

Spock pulled up the message with his assignment and read it aloud. “You are a researcher assigned to a planet where the primary form of greeting is the grasping of hands. All conversations are begun and ended by an embrace and another clasping of hands. How do you approach this custom?”

Spock looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“And?” Kirk asked, cocking his head. 

“I am Vulcan and physical touch is reserved only for immediate family members and intimate relationships.”

“I know that,” Kirk said, his dark eyebrows furrowing. “That’s why I assigned it to you.”

“If I may make a comparison,” Spock began and Kirk made a gesture as if for him to go ahead even though Spock wasn’t waiting for permission. “This would be tantamount to assigning a human a situation wherein they must copulate with every being they meet as a form of greeting. Physical touch is similarly intimate to Vulcans.”

Kirk picked at one of his teeth and huffed a noise of understanding. “I mean I get where you’re coming from but I did assign that situation.”

Spock inhaled sharply and had to spend a moment regulating his heartbeat. 

“Cadet Reynard had it. They did a pretty good job.”

“And might I inquire as to why I did not do a ‘good job,’” Spock asked in a monotone. It was the best way to avoid anything telling from affecting his voice.

“Look—uh, what’s your name again?”

“Spock,” Spock bit out, feeling his nostrils flare. 

“Spock, sorry, loads of names to remember,” Kirk said and there was that flash of a smile like he was laughing at a joke no one else heard. “Spock, you wrote your essay, you made some arguments. But you weren’t supposed to make an argument, you were supposed to reflect. What would _ you _ do in that situation? Could you compromise your values? Push away your discomfort? If not, how would you diffuse the potential negative social ramifications? Ameliorate the insult to their culture?”

Spock stared at him.

Kirk stared back and then sighed. “If you want to rewrite the essay, I’ll give you an average of your two scores. You don’t have to but I’m offering.”

Spock was about to respond when the door opened and a man, already halfway through a yell, stepped inside. “Have you eaten today?” he demanded, hands on his hips like some human cartoon of a grandmother. Spock pictured a wooden spoon.

“I just ate an apple. Spock here can tell you I ate an apple.”

Bewildered, Spock nodded.

“An _ apple _ is not lunch,” the man said frowning deeply, the lines about his mouth tilting, the direct opposite of Kirk’s smiles, but equally foreboding. 

“I’ve got office hours, Bones, and marking to do. I’ll eat later,” Kirk said dismissively, gesturing at his desk which even Spock could admit looked terrible, covered in paper copies of essays and stains, old cups and a few forks. Kirk clearly had no idea how to take care of himself. This man was surely his keeper. He seemed to need one.

The man, presumably Bones, sighed heavily and said, “We’re going to lunch, Jim. I’m taking you.”

“Office. Hours,” Kirk insisted and Bones sighed again. 

“Fine, I’ll bring you something. Sandwich?”

“BLT and I swear to god if you get me tempeh bacon again…”

“It’s better for you!”

“Tastes like shoes,” Kirk said with a snort before Bones huffed his way out of the room. Kirk turned his sharp gaze back to Spock and gave him a wry smile as he ran a hand through his hair, forcing the strands into newfound disarray. “Sorry, Bones—uh, Dr. McCoy doesn’t have a great sense of decorum.”

Kirk saying that anyone else lacked decorum was hypocritical to the point of absurdity, but Spock decided not to comment.

“Do you often forget to obtain adequate nutrition?” Spock asked instead of one of the many other more appropriate questions floating in and out of his mind.

Kirk shrugged. “I get busy.”

Spock rolled that over in his mind and then nodded. “I will rewrite my essay,” he said. “However please note that I formally object to the assignment.”

“So noted,” Kirk said, laughing quietly. Unlike most laughter Spock had encountered, this laughter did not seem to be at his expense. It sounded amused instead of mocking and he found he liked it. Illogical.

* * *

Class the following week went similarly. Kirk would slop himself into the classroom, looking half-awake and often not completely dressed, occasionally eating something that should not be eaten in public, occasionally gulping down coffee as if it were the source of life itself. On Friday, he came into class with a sock stuck to the back of his jacket. No one pointed it out.

Spock was growing more and more fascinated by the day.

“Well, Cadet Izadi, would _ you _ be willing to stake your life on a lie?”

And,

“Penelope Senestra once said that negotiation is a type of warfare. Thoughts?”

Then,

“Discuss the negotiation tactics most useful in a society without verbal language. I’m hungover and am just going to put my head down here.”

That last one was less than admirable but it did lead to an interesting argument wherein Cadet Uhura argued that body language was more expressive as words and Cadet Yang shouted that that’s what writing things down was for.

Kirk had said from where his head was flopped on his arms, “Aw, fuck, Ziwen, stop yelling.”

And Ziwen had apologized.

How was it possible for a man with Kirk’s habits to inspire such respect among Spock’s fellow classmates? 

After that particular class, Spock had approached Kirk and said, “It is unprofessional to attend a class you are tasked with teaching after consuming an amount of alcohol that inhibits your ability to perform your assigned duties.”

Kirk looked up at him blearily. “What’s your name again?”

Spock’s nostrils flared. He needed to get that response under control. “Spock. Sir.”

Kirk gave him that half-smile that made Spock think he was hiding something and then said, “Right. Right. What makes you think I’m even remotely professional?”

“You are remarkably intelligent and, despite your behavior, clearly a dedicated educator. Why do you choose to present yourself this way?”

Kirk leaned back in his chair, all measures of bleariness and illness disappearing from his body. His eyes sharp as he regarded Spock, considering and curious in equal parts. 

Kirk had been _ faking _ it. “Students act differently when they think you’re not paying attention. No posturing or sucking up. They say what they _ think _ and not what they think I want to hear.”

“So you lie,” Spock said, disapproving and impressed against his better judgment. The last several weeks replayed in his mind under a new light. 

“It’s a tactic, Cadet Spock. It’s what you’re here to learn, isn’t it?”

Spock swept out of the classroom without another word. 

* * *

Kirk was a mystery.

One Spock was going to solve. Like any experiment, one needed to have a hypothesis. Spock’s hypothesis? Kirk was hiding something. 

If following the constructs of the scientific method, Spock would need to collect adequate data to reach the necessary conclusion. And for this purpose, Spock obtained Kirk’s schedule from the public database for instructors and noted that he taught two classes: Tactics and Negotiation and Self Defense. He found, based on his schedule that Spock would have no difficulties observing him at a distance if he were careful. And Spock would be very careful. 

Over the next 3.1 weeks, he followed from a set distance as Kirk left the classroom, choosing study locations that would enable him to keep an eye on Kirk’s activities.

It soon became evident that ‘Bones’ had the right of it. Kirk rarely had the time to eat anything between his teaching schedule, office hours—which turned out to be well-attended—and what seemed to be at first an avid social life—but was revealed on further inspection to be an intricate series of favors that he performed for reasons Spock could not fathom.

First it was walking Professor Kemp’s rottweiler.

Next it was consulting on an engineering project for a set of freshly graduated ensigns who were earthside.

Then, a week into the proceedings, Kirk caught on to him.

Although Spock had fastidiously maintained the 2.2 minute delay and 100 meter distance that had served him well so far, he must not have been as careful as he had believed. For, when he rounded a corner—Kirk was on his way to the simulation labs—he found the professor leaning against the wall, an expectant expression on his face. “Spock, was it?”

Spock froze in his tracks. “You do remember my name.”

“Yeah, but I like the way you turn green when I ask you what it is. Can I help you?” he asked, pushing off the wall and turning to face him. 

Spock could either lie or tell the truth. Both seemed equally embarrassing. “I struggled to comprehend the motivation behind your behaviors during class and therefore took it upon myself to gain clarity on the matter.”

Jim huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “By stalking me?”

“By obtaining more information.”

“By stalking me.”

“A crude equivalence.”

“Look, Spock, I’m not that interesting. I appreciate the thought though.”

“On the contrary, I have yet to discern a pattern in your extracurricular activities. They do not seem to be gestures of goodwill nor are you compensated monetarily. You have yet to do the same activity twice in the last ten days. Is there a schedule?”

Kirk’s eyes had grown steadily wider with each of Spock’s declarations. “So is it a Vulcan thing?”

“You will have to be more specific,” Spock said, attempting not to bristle. Kirk had purposefully avoided his question.

“This sort of creepy analysis of habits. Following people around…”

“Vulcans will go to great lengths for the sake of scientific inquiry,” Spock said, folding his hands behind his back for lack of a better thing to do with them.

“Scientific inquiry,” Kirk repeated slowly. “So nothing personal then?”

Spock shook his head. “Perhaps I should apologize. I did not think critically on how my actions would be perceived.”

Kirk waved a hand. “Consider it forgiven. Forgotten. Whatever.”

Spock turned on his heel, ready to leave before Kirk spoke again. “If you have questions, you know you can just ask me right? I’ll answer them.”

Spock doubted Kirk would do anything of the sort.

“I will take that under advisement,” Spock said, and as he walked away, he could not understand why his cheeks felt so warm.

* * *

Tactics and Negotiation was swiftly becoming Spock’s most fascinating class, both for academic and more...personal reasons. He would not call it his favorite as Vulcans did not have such preferences. However, every session held a new piece of information about Kirk and every lesson some new realization that had the class discussing the topic long after Kirk had left.

“How’s Kirk’s class going?” Pike asked him during their scheduled advisor meeting halfway through term.

Spock gave him an unimpressed look. “Kirk is not what I expected.”

Pike leaned back in his chair and grinned, looking very satisfied with himself. “In what way?”

“He continues to defy logic. His habits are ill-suited to a man in his position however his teaching generates an unprecedented interest among his students.”

Pike laughed. “Kirk is something of a disaster. You’re not the first to think so. In fact, I think I’ve told him that multiple times to his face.”

“That is hyperbolic and does nothing to explain his behavior.”

“Have you considered that there might be a method to his madness.”

“Not one that I can detect.”

“Maybe you’re not looking in the right place.”

Spock raised one eyebrow and thought about that well into the evening. Perhaps he would have to change his method of inquiry.

Even disasters could be charted with the correct scientific approach.

* * *

Spock placed a clear recyclable lunch box containing a tomato and bean sprout sandwich on Kirk’s desk after class was dismissed. Kirk looked down at it and then back at Spock, dark eyebrows raised high and making his forehead wrinkle. “What’s this?” he asked, jabbing the container open with his stylus. The bread inside wobbled.

“A sandwich,” Spock said flatly.

One corner of Kirk’s mouth quirked up and then he pushed it down with obvious effort. “Yes. I do have eyes, Cadet Spock and I have, in fact, seen a sandwich before. Why is it on my desk?”

Spock’s nostrils flared against his will. “You have made it clear you find it difficult to obtain adequate nutrition. I have brought you this to address that issue.”

Kirk sucked in his cheeks and seemed to be fighting against some urge before he coughed, the noise transforming into laughter. Spock narrowed his eyes.

“If you do not wish to consume this food item, I will find other uses for it.”

That made Kirk laugh harder. “What...other...uses could a _ sandwich _ have?”

“That is inconsequential,” Spock answered instead of saying that he did not yet know.

Spock reached out to take the sandwich, neck feeling hot under his collar. He was fairly certain this emotional response was embarrassment and that he would consequently need to increase the depth of his nightly meditations in order to suppress it.

Kirk smacked the back of his hand with his stylus. “Nuh-uh. You gave me the sandwich so it’s mine now.”

Kirk had stopped laughing but he was smiling wide, blue eyes bright with humor. Eyes did not twinkle but Spock thought rather fantastically that his were.

Spock nodded sharply. “I am gratified.”

Kirk mumbled something as he picked up the sandwich and Spock submitted to his desire to leave the vicinity immediately. He had just reached the doors when he heard Kirk call out, voice muffled through a bite of food, “Thanks for the adequate nutrition!”

Spock looked at his feet and walked faster.

* * *

Two months into the class and Spock was no further in his task of understanding James Kirk. He’d taken to bringing Kirk food once every week, acknowledging that it made logical sense to ensure his professor would not die from malnutrition in the middle of the semester which would, of course, result in an incomplete grade for thirty-three cadets and was unacceptable when Spock could easily prevent it.

During the class before their midterm, Kirk was leaned back in his rickety chair at the front of the class, legs kicked up and pressing against the lip of the desk, his body a wide angle as he scraped the remaining contents of a yogurt container into his mouth with his fingers. Spock had _ brought _him that yogurt. And had included a spoon. This behavior was unacceptable. 

Spock clenched his hands around the lip of the table in front of him as Kirk popped his fingers out of his mouth and gestured at Cadet D’ness who seemed equally embarrassed to be called on by Kirk while he licked yogurt of his hands.

D’ness cleared her throat. “Right, what I was thinking was that, while Cadet Yang makes a good point, your survival has to be the ultimate goal during any mission.”

Spock turned and regarded her. D’ness was not one of the most outspoken members in class, but her points were usually concise and admirable. Here Spock would have to disagree. 

“Cadet Spock,” Kirk said abruptly and Spock returned his attention to the professor. Kirk looked at him blankly. “Have something to say?”

Spock steeled himself. He preferred not to share his thoughts in class as his fellow cadets tended to find them unpalatable.

“Indeed,” he said, speaking more to his desk than the room at large. “While survival is one of the primary considerations during any mission, it must be noted that the survival of the entire crew must be prioritized over any individual life.”

It was the most he had ever said in class and Spock did not realize this until the rest of the class had fallen silent. Kirk sneezed, making a not insignificant number of his classmates jump.

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” Kirk quoted thoughtfully after he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “A very good point.”

It was silent for a moment, the only sound Kirk surreptitiously sniffling as he gathered his things. “Alright, dismissed for the day. Study for the test Friday. Review materials are in the syllabus.”

Spock studied for the exam. Typically, he did not need to study for his Starfleet exams as they were created to human standards and Spock’s eidetic memory rendered such methods ineffective. However, he was certain Kirk would include something in the test that defied logic. Something even Spock’s infallible memory would be unable to answer. Studying may have been useless, but Spock would not fail due to lack of effort.

Friday came and Spock entered the classroom with as much dedication as he could muster and found Kirk already slumped at his desk looking somehow more disastrous than usual. At the sound of the door, Kirk levered himself into a sitting position and smiled blearily. Was this part of the test? Had Kirk _ slept _here?

“Professor Kirk?” Spock asked, unable to keep the concern from his voice.

“Hmm, yup, that’s me. What can I do you for?”

Spock looked around the room and noted he had been the first to arrive. He was, in fact, ten minutes early which did nothing to explain Kirk’s presence in the classroom. The man was perpetually late. 

Spock put the protein shake he had brought with him on the desk and stared at Kirk. He looked pale and unshowered, his eyes slightly bloodshot and his breathing heavy. He sounded...congested.

“Ah, Spock, thanks,” Kirk said, grabbing the bottle and then moving it a foot to the side and setting it down again without moving to consume it. Spock narrowed his eyes.

“You should drink this protein supplement. You look unwell.”

Kirk flapped his hand and scoffed, the exhalation turning into a coughing fit that forced him to tuck his face into his elbow as he grew red from lack of oxygen.

Cadet Uhura entered the room, looked between them, rolled her eyes, and took her seat.

“You are sick,” Spock said, frowning. Kirk looked up at him, the usual twitch of a smile appearing around his mouth despite how wan he appeared.

“Got midterms to host, can’t back down now,” he said lightly. Then he ran his arm under his nose, the uniform fabric coming away wet. Spock couldn’t hide his grimace. 

“Surely another professor can moderate the exam,” Spock pressed and Kirk shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s just a couple of hours.”

Spock recognized he would not win this argument and retreated to his seat where, shortly after, Kirk handed out the exams, his preference for paper continuing to confuse Spock who found the process unnecessarily cumbersome. A computer administered autograder was obviously superior.

The test was as Spock expected, equal parts straightforward and needlessly frustrating. He finished it quickly and found himself staring at the final question.

_ Provide an example of an unnecessary risk. _

It was not Vulcan to take unnecessary risks. However, he was certain Kirk would find that answer inadequate.

After considering his answer for a few moments, he turned in the test. Kirk took it with a smile and then blew his nose loudly on a tissue that Spock could not identify the source of. 

Spock left the classroom with purpose.

* * *

“And you are?” the man across the desk drawled. Spock let his hands fall behind his back into parade rest.

“I am Cadet Spock. If I recall correctly, you are one Doctor Leonard McCoy, acquaintance of James Kirk.”

Dr. McCoy’s face turned red as he sucked in a breath and held it. “Ah, _ Spock_. Figures. You got the facts right but I’m not sure what that’s got to do with the price of pears in Persia.”

Spock paused and translated the idiomatic expression. “If I understand you correctly, you would like me to share my purpose for entering your office.”

“Yeah,” the doctor said, looking pained.

“Professor Kirk is ill and will not listen to reason,” Spock said firmly.

“What else is new?” McCoy asked, surely rhetorically, as he leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his face. “Is he puking?”

“I believe it is the common Terran cold,” Spock replied, pushing away his rising distaste for this conversation.

“Ah,” McCoy said before ducking down and rifling through a drawer. He slammed three hypos onto the desk and gestured at them with a dramatic swing of his forearm. “Have at them. There’s no cure for a cold, but Jim—if you can convince him to take the damn things—can use these.”

Spock nodded and turned to leave, satisfied he had retrieved someone to ensure Kirk’s wellbeing.

“Where are you going?” McCoy called after him. “Take these with you,” McCoy said when Spock turned back, holding up his handful of hyposprays and shaking them in Spock’s direction. 

“Will you not deliver them to Professor Kirk yourself?” Spock asked.

McCoy exhaled sharply. “Fat chance. Take ‘em or leave ‘em. Jim can call me himself if he gets desperate.”

“Very well,” Spock said with a polite inclination of his head, taking the hyposprays in hand and tucking them into the pocket of his uniform trousers.

“Now skedaddle. I’ve got work to do without having to deal with another of Jim’s pathetic crushes.”

Spock pondered both ‘skedaddle’ and ‘crush’ on his way back to the classroom.

When he arrived, Kirk’s classroom was empty. Spock shouldn’t have been surprised, however, he permitted himself a small sigh. 

While he had yet to utilize the knowledge, his surveillance of Kirk from the early weeks of the semester had yielded Kirk’s personal address. It seemed needlessly invasive to have kept that information, yet Spock could not find it in himself to regret it as he crossed campus and entered the professor’s apartment building.

Kirk was on the fourth floor and, if he was not home, Spock would leave the hyposprays by his door for his later use. It was a simple and efficient plan.

Spock knocked on the door and was answered by a grating wheeze. “Who is it?”

Not waiting for an answer, Kirk opened the door and then his eyebrows went up in surprise. Spock took in his appearance. Though it had been under an hour since he had last seen the professor, Kirk had changed from his uniform into loose black pants—Spock vaguely recognized them as human sweatpants—and an orange shirt with a large hole in the collar, the phrase _ Fanta _ embellished over the chest, faded into a white blur.

“Am I hallucinating?” Kirk asked, peering out into the hallway.

“You are not,” Spock confirmed. His stomach felt unsettled so he pushed down the sensation and focused on the matter at hand. “Due to your illness, I have obtained hyposprays that will reduce your symptoms.”

Kirk rolled his eyes and turned around to walk into his apartment. 56 seconds passed and when he didn’t return, Spock tentatively stepped inside, not expecting the mess he was about to encounter.

It came to him in flashes.

Dishes next to an empty sink, piled on top of one another and balancing precariously. A pot on a stove with a ladle peeking over the rim, surrounded by a constellation of dark stains that were most likely evidence of whatever soup had been heated in that very pot. Four pizza boxes of varying sizes stacked in front of the refrigerator—had the pizzas been consumed all at once or had Kirk merely neglected to discard the boxes appropriately? Which was worse? When Spock stepped further inside, bypassing the kitchen, he saw a small mountain of clothes piled next to a threadbare gray couch with discarded socks tucked into the creases of the cushions and draped across the back. The coffee table was indiscernible under stacks of padds and paper. A lone hardback book was wedged under the television and Spock spied a fork—two, three...innumerable—scattered on the floor. The carpet was stained.

Spock took a deep breath. And then regretted it. 

Kirk had sprawled himself onto the couch with his eyes closed. “Oh, did you come in?” he asked as Spock began to pick his way through the mess with careful steps.

Spock was silent as he stepped over the broken handle of a coffee mug, coming to a stop in front of Kirk and handing over the hyposprays. Kirk didn’t even move to take them, letting them drop onto his chest. 

“Ughhh,” he groaned. “I feel like shit.”

“That is what the hyposprays are for,” Spock pointed out.

“No hyposprays,” Kirk said petulantly, pushing them to the ground in a fit. 

Spock clenched his jaw and retreated to the kitchen, stomach turning over at the sheer volume of the mess. This was unacceptable.

He opened several cupboards to find a clean cup which he filled with water before returning to hand it off to Kirk. “Drink,” he said, before returning to stare at the kitchen where he felt a steady itch start in his palms and crawl its way over his body until it settled in his spine.

Deciding to start with the dishes in the sink, Spock searched in the lower cupboards for gloves, but unable to find them, resigned himself to rinsing each one through the sonic, ignoring the drier bits of food as they flicked off into the disposal, before placing them carefully in the dishwasher. Sink cleared of debris, Spock turned to the stove which was...also covered in dishes and several pots.

“What are you doing in there?” Kirk demanded from the couch.

Of course, Kirk could sit up and see over the kitchen island to determine exactly what Spock was doing, but he, in what seemed to be typical Kirk fashion, refused to do so. Spock ignored him and continued cleaning.

“If you are cleaning my kitchen, I will fail you,” Kirk said.

“Forgive me if I doubt your sincerity.”

He heard Kirk’s wet laughter echo from the couch, the sounds of mirth quickly becoming coughs before he uttered a frustrated, “Fuck.”

Spock picked up the pizza boxes and left the apartment in order to deposit them in the cycler in the hallway. When he re-entered the apartment, Kirk looked surprised. “You’re back,” he said. An obvious and unnecessary statement.

The kitchen marginally neater, Spock made his way back to the couch and found himself frowning down at Kirk whose blue eyes were glassy and mouth a startling pink. “I fail to understand why you choose to live like this.”

Kirk’s eyes refocused on him, some of their usual perceptiveness drained by what Spock could only presume was illness-induced exhaustion. “I get busy,” Kirk mumbled, then he picked up the cup of water Spock had provided and proceeded to drink it laying down, water dribbling down his chin and onto his _ Fanta _ shirt with each swallow. It was an echo of what Kirk had said to him in his office when Spock had posited the same question.

It was disgusting and yet…Spock felt his fascination grow because Spock had a steadily growing suspicion that being busy was not entirely the reason.

“While I cannot deny that your schedule typically contains a larger number of activities than the average human, I do not believe you lack the time to maintain both your appearance and your home.”

Kirk worked his jaw. “Know me so well do you?”

“I am simply trying to understand your contradictory behavior.”

“Alright,” Kirk grunted, dragging himself into a seated position. “Why’s it contradictory?”

“You are one of the most insightful instructors I have yet to study under and yet you choose to live like this,” Spock said with a significant look at the detritus surrounding them.

Kirk plucked a sock from the back of the couch and tossed it at the TV. How this was supposed to help, Spock had no idea. 

“Is it yet another of your many tactics? I cannot believe you live like this as an attempt to further the education of your cadets.”

Kirk’s mouth moved in a complicated manner, edges first tilting down as his nostrils flared and then up on one side before forming a tight line. “How about this?” Kirk said and then he inhaled on a snort, retracting mucus into his sinuses before continuing. “People have called me a genius my whole life. I’m sure you know the feeling.”

Spock wanted to say that he was not considered a genius by Vulcan standards, however he knew it would be an inappropriate time to share that fact.

“It's tiring,” Kirk continued, “people looking at you like you're gonna do great things or even like you have answers to everything.” Kirk’s mouth formed that flat line again. “And eventually people wanted so much from me that I _ did _ get busier and busier and had less time and got messier because taking care of myself was the first thing to slip and then I started to notice people asked me things less because they started to doubt that someone so disgusting could be this reported genius. And I liked it when people asked me less and looked at me less. I got to choose what I wanted to do. Like walk dogs and help confused kids. So I do things like this,” Kirk gestured around himself weakly, “and people leave me alone because they make judgments when they first meet me. Not Kirk the genius. Kirk the slob. It's exactly what you thought when you first met me,” Kirk finished, shifting his eyes to Spock.

Spock inhaled, ready to reply, but Kirk interrupted. “I know you did. You have judgy eyes, you know that?”

“So you do not wish for people to have expectations because you find them...limiting?” Spock asked, still wanting to understand.

“I want people to not give a shit,” Kirk answered before flopping back onto the couch with a miserable groan.

Spock considered that for a moment. He thought of his father. "I must admit to understanding the desire to defy expectation."

Kirk looked at him with those eyes that seemed to know his thoughts.

“Do you require anything else?” Spock asked, wanting to leave for fear of beginning the process of organizing the living room. Though perhaps trying to clean Kirk’s clothes would be considered rude.

“Nah, I’m gonna sleep,” he said, closing his eyes again. Spock took the opportunity to refill his water.

When he put down the cup on the only exposed four inches of the coffee table’s surface, Kirk reached out and brushed his fingers over the bone of Spock’s wrist. They were warm.

“Thanks for checking on me,” he said, voice muddled with sleep.

“It is of no consequence,” Spock said out of habit, even when he knew it wasn’t strictly accurate. 

“Nuh-uh,” Kirk said, shaking his head. “You’re nice.”

Spock rose to his full height and pulled away. “It would be wise for you to rest,” he said sharply before rushing from the apartment, the tips of his ears burning and the place on his wrist where Kirk had touched him still tingling.

* * *

_ Plz come 2 my office hrs tues _

Spock looked at the message from Kirk and took a moment to fill in the abbreviations. It seemed illogical to shorten words in such a manner. 

_ I will be there at 1200_, he replied.

Spock was what many humans would (and had) called obtuse. Both in his presence and surely without it. In so saying, they most likely did not mean that Spock was an angle of greater than 90 degrees though that perhaps would have been a preferable definition. Most likely, these humans had intended to comment on Spock’s ability to understand the intentions of others. Or rather his lack thereof. This had been clarified when a fellow cadet called him ‘insensitive and obtuse’ for declining the romantic attentions of a classmate based on his lack of understanding of the present social cues.

Spock knew this about himself now. He had incorporated it into his self-concept in the way that he had incorporated his human heritage, his preference for Vulcan ideology, and his love of soup. 

However, Spock was not obtuse enough to not recognize that his reactions to James T. Kirk were not platonic in nature. He had left Kirk’s apartment on Friday and could not forget the feeling of Kirk’s hand on his arm. He had spent the evening meditating on the matter and concluded that his physical response was one of attraction and romantic interest. 

Spock acknowledged that such a response was ill-timed, entirely inappropriate, and grossly undeserved.

Therefore this interest, like many things, would be disregarded as irrelevant.

So when Spock arrived for his appointment, he prepared himself for his response to Kirk’s presence, ridding his mind of all _ interest_, before stepping into his office.

“Spock!” Kirk said brightly, that tilting smile appearing on his face. “We had an appointment didn’t we?”

Yet again, Kirk’s hair was pushed back from his face, revealing those eyes that so often caught Spock’s attention. He looked neater, despite the streak of what appeared to be grape jam on his chin. His desk was dirtier than Spock had last seen it, the number of papers having increased tenfold and the remnants of meals scattered over the dented surface.

“Correct. What was it that you would like to discuss?” Spock said, keeping his voice free from emotion.

Kirk cocked his head, eyebrows furrowing. “What’s up? Are you alright?”

“To what are you referring?” Spock asked.

“You seem…” Kirk hesitated, gesturing in Spock’s general direction. “All uptight or something.”

Spock’s nostrils flared of their own accord. “What would you like to discuss?” Spock repeated.

Kirk’s eyebrows drew even further together. “Alright,” he said slowly, pulling out a sheaf of papers.

“It’s about your midterm,” Kirk said, flipping through the papers in his hand.

Spock tensed.

“Sit down, why don’t ya,” Kirk said, looking at him over the rim of his glasses in a way that had Spock complying immediately. 

“You did good so you can wipe that pinched look off your face,” Kirk said before returning his attention to the exam in front of him, flipping the pages over and pushing it across the desk so Spock could see it. “I wanted to make sure you knew you missed a question.”

Kirk tapped the blank page with his stylus.

_ Provide an example of an unnecessary risk. _

Spock looked up and raised one eyebrow. “I did not.”

The corner of Kirk’s mouth ticked up again. “So your answer is...no answer.”

“Correct,” Spock said.

Reeling back in his chair to the point Spock thought he would fall out of it, Kirk barked out a laugh. “You are a piece of work, Spock. Fucking _ genius_. Can I use this as an example in class?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Kirk pulled back the paper and put it back on another stack, seemingly at random. 

“You may,” Spock said. “However, I might suggest not sharing that it was my exam from which you obtained such an example.”

Kirk became serious, all laughter disappearing from his face to be replaced by sincere confusion. “Why not? You did good. Gloat a bit.”

“My fellow cadets would not see it as such. My work is not well-received by my classmates and would serve only to facilitate a dismissal of the example as spurious.”

“Why do you think your classmates look down on your work?” Kirk asked, sticking the end of the stylus into his mouth and worrying it with his teeth.

“I am Vulcan,” Spock said simply.

“That’s pretty damn xenophobic,” Kirk said and even though Spock could not see his leg, he could hear him begin to tap his foot.

“Indeed. However, I find I cannot fault them their reaction to our differences, irrational though it may be.”

Kirk scoffed and didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Well, I’m going to tell them it was you. I want to snuff out any of that prejudiced bullshit.”

Spock felt as if a worm was wiggling in his belly and forced himself to focus.

“Good job on the essay rewrite by the way. Wearing gloves to avoid skin contact. Pretty smart,” Kirk said absentmindedly, beginning to rifle through the papers on his desk. “I have a copy here somewhere…”

Kirk unearthed the essay and tossed it at Spock, the pages flapping before they struck Spock in the chest. Spock gripped it in his hand and stood.

“If there was nothing else, Professor…” Spock began and Kirk nodded.

“Yeah, you’re free to go,” Kirk said.

So Spock did.

* * *

Kirk did use Spock’s exam as an example. It had the class laughing when Kirk projected it on the screen.

“No fucking way,” the cadet behind Spock said, jabbing him in the shoulder with her hand. “You sneak.”

Spock looked at her and realized she was being friendly. Cadet Farrar laughed too and said, “You’re always full of surprises.”

Kirk smiled at him, his blue eyes bright behind the frames of his glasses, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. Spock looked away.

* * *

Spock worked tirelessly to control his newfound attraction to Kirk. He wanted to cease bringing him lunch but found himself unable to risk the detriment to Kirk’s wellbeing. Instead of lingering over potential conversation, he simply dropped whatever food item he had procured on Kirk’s desk (often before he was there) and then promptly retreated to his seat.

He ignored the confused looks Kirk took to giving him during class as Spock focused intently on anything but Kirk.

With two weeks left in class, Kirk stumbled into the classroom on a Wednesday morning, looking particularly undone. His hair had grown longer over the semester as if he had forgotten to cut it and the strands swept over his ears and curled at the ends. It was wet and in disarray, Kirk running an absentminded hand through it while he tried to put his coffee mug on the table—and failed, the mug smashing to the floor and spraying coffee everywhere. “Damnit,” he hissed. The rest of the class hissed in sympathy.

Spock looked on and did nothing.

There was nothing unique about that particular class, merely a discussion on the latest reading and a review of the upcoming final exam format. When Kirk dismissed them, Spock gathered his things, ready to leave for his next class and attempt to forget about the way Kirk bit his lower lip when he was thinking. It was unvulcan to notice such things.

“Hey, Spock,” Kirk said before Spock could successfully leave the room.

“Yes, Professor,” Spock said sharply, turning back to face Kirk but not walking any closer to his desk.

Kirk tilted his head. “You’re not alright.”

“I do not understand,” Spock said, unable to suppress the surprise he felt at the sudden declaration.

“What I’m saying is where’d Spock go? You used to pay attention to everything in class. Now you keep your head down. Taking notes presumably since I doubt you of all people would be doing other schoolwork in class.”

“I am simply taking notes,” Spock confirmed. He felt a pressure on his chest as if some clawing animal had settled there.

Kirk hummed in consideration and tapped one of the broken shards of his coffee mug against the edge of the desk. He didn’t say anything and Spock took that as permission to leave.

* * *

After this curious conversation, Kirk took to aggressively thanking Spock for the food he brought.

“Mm, blueberry muffins. My favorite.”

And

“How’d you know I wanted an egg sandwich?”

Kirk’s eyes always stared after him for several more seconds than necessary before returning his attention to the class, covering himself in crumbs as he ripped apart the muffin and ate it in absentminded bites. Or smearing butter across his cheek when he forgot he’d just touched the egg sandwich he was supposed to be eating.

Spock found himself just as fascinated as he had been every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the last twelve weeks.

So, when he finished his final and approached Kirk’s desk in the quiet of the classroom, it was with a certain amount of disappointment that his mornings would no longer include observing Kirk drip his morning beverage of choice over his uniform while he talked through whatever food was in his mouth.

* * *

Spock received his mark. 95% overall. An A.

He nodded at Pike, returning the padd that displayed his final grades. “Satisfactory.”

Pike laughed and shook his head. “How’d Kirk’s class turn out?”

“You were correct. He was a fascinating individual, regardless of his behavior, he is clearly intelligent.”

“Not to say I told you so but…”

Spock inclined his head. Pike was technically correct. He had told him so.

“Let’s talk about summer courses. Are you planning on taking any?”

* * *

Spock spent 1.5 weeks thinking about Professor Kirk exactly two times a day. Once at 1300 when he felt a rising concern that the man was not eating. Another time in the evening before his scheduled meditation while he cleared his mind of his worldly concerns.

Despite this careful allowance, the itch in his hands when he had surveyed Kirk's apartment became an ever present sensation migrating at times from his palms to his stomach to the back of his neck. Spock determined that such a sensation would fade with time and therefore continued his life as it had been prior to acquaintance with James Kirk.

On the second Wednesday after his final class with Kirk, Spock was finding his repose in the free space between the cadet dormitories and the primary student union building. The sun was bright and Spock conceded that such weather, 78.6 degrees Fahrenheit as it was, provided much needed respite from the cool spring of San Francisco.

With the intent to read the latest astrophysics paper, Spock allowed himself to enjoy the warm breeze that brushed through his hair as he took his seat on a bench beneath a maple tree, its leaves fully unfurled for the season and moving with the wind.

"Spock!"

Spock turned and took in the man approaching him. Kirk looked no better than most days, a smear of dirt on his face just under his eye, uniform creased and stained, his hair pushed back from his face by the summer wind. He smiled his lopsided smile.

"Professor Kirk," Spock said, inclining his head in greeting.

"Hey, I'm not your professor anymore," Kirk pointed out as he dropped down on the bench next to Spock.

"But that is still your title regardless of whether I am in your class or not."

Kirk tossed his arm over the back of the bench, the heat of his hand palpable behind Spock's back. "Awfully impersonal though."

"And entirely appropriate."

The tree sighed as the wind moved through its leaves and Spock looked down at his hands.

"Get a drink with me.”

Spock blinked once. And then again as the 1.1 seconds afforded by the gesture was not enough for him to understand Kirk’s statement. “Is that a question, sir?”

Kirk shuddered and grimaced in distaste. “Oh don’t say _ sir _ that's worse than professor.”

When Spock didn’t reply, Kirk sighed. “Look, I think you’re interesting. I think you think I’m interesting. Let's get a drink or dinner even. Get to know each other outside of the classroom. You know.”

“I do not know.”

Kirk’s perpetually expressive mouth went tight. “Are you doing this on purpose or are you genuinely confused?”

“It is inappropriate for us to have this conversation at this time.”

“What? At 10 AM?”

“I am your student.”

“Not anymore! It’s not against regulation!”

“It is frowned upon,” Spock said even as his heart pattered quickly in his side.

“Sounds like an excuse, Spock,” Kirk said, leaning forward as his smile took on a decidedly leonine quality.

“It is not an excuse as that implies a lack of rational foundation for argument. I have provided my reasons and you must accept them.”

“Ah, c’mon, this was a pretty good conversation until you went and made it about _ reason_. You know romance isn’t really about reason,” Kirk pointed out and Spock grit his teeth in order to avoid rolling his eyes.

“I am not having this discussion.”

“I’m gonna ask you out again. Just you wait,” Kirk said from the bench while Spock stuffed his belongings into his satchel. Spock could feel his eyes on him as he walked away.

* * *

Spock failed to attain meditation that night, Kirk's words replaying in his mind. He rose from his meditation mat and made his way to the fresher, hoping the calming sonics would soothe away the gathering itch in his limbs.

The back and forth thoughts continued in his mind.

Pursuing a social relationship with Kirk would be inappropriate. 

Yet Spock wanted it.

It was an unnecessary risk.

Spock's hand froze in its journey to switch off the sonics. He closed his eyes. 

He had not studied under James Kirk for twelve weeks in order to learn nothing about risk.

Spock made a decision

* * *

Spock stood outside Kirk’s office, fingers twitching against his thigh as he stared at the closed door. He had decided. Now he had to execute his decision.

He knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Kirk called and Spock opened the door with an audible clunk as the automatic mechanism struggled to complete the task.

“Ugh, I’m going to have to put in a work order again,” Kirk said, standing up and crossing to the door to push it open the rest of the way. He had a leaf stuck in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Spock moved around him, taking a seat in the only chair free of papers and waited. When Kirk turned back to him, he was pink-cheeked and smiling. “I gotta admit, I’m surprised to see you.”

“One week ago,” Spock said, brushing past pleasantries, “You inquired after my desire to ‘get a drink’ with you.”

“I did,” Kirk said, coming up next to Spock and leaning his hip against his desk. It knocked off one of the stacks of papers and they cascaded to the floor. Spock took a deep breath.

“Do you retract your offer?”

“Nope,” Kirk said, ignoring the papers pooled about his ankles as he smiled wider. “Do you retract your rejection of my offer?”

“I did not reject your offer insomuch as request your offer be postponed for a later time.”

“Sounded like a rejection to me,” Kirk said with a shrug.

Spock stared down at the papers on the floor, the familiar itch to right them returning to his hands. He knelt down and began the process of collecting them.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Kirk said and Spock saw his legs retreat out of the corner of his eye.

“This is unacceptable behavior for an Academy professor.”

“Unacceptable, am I?”

Spock looked over at where Kirk had deposited himself in the chair Spock had vacated. His eyes were twinkling again, lips quirked. "What made you change your mind?" Kirk asked.

"Something I learned in your class," Spock began, placing the collected papers back onto the dishevelled desk.

"Really?" Kirk crossed his arms over his chest, raising his eyebrows.

"I believe we discussed risks at great length."

"So this is a risk, huh?"

"Yes, but one I have deemed worthwhile."

Kirk pressed his hand to his chest, eyes dramatically wide. "Why Spock, I'm unbearably flattered."

"Sarcasm is unnecessary."

Kirk patted his arm affectionately and Spock was forced to regulate the beating of his heart.

"So Thursday then? Dinner?"

Spock nodded and supposed it was a date.

* * *

Kirk arrived for their appointed romantic rendezvous wearing a suit. His hair was done and his face clean. As he approached the restaurant, Spock realized it was the neatest he had ever seen him.

There was a flapping noise and Spock looked down. Kirk was wearing sandals—_flip flops_, Spock thought distantly, mortified at the sight of Kirk's untrimmed toenails.

Spock stared at the offending _ flip flops _ and raised one eyebrow.

Kirk ran a hand through his hair, ruining its clean lines, and smiled sheepishly. "I couldn't find my shoes."

Spock sighed.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com)


End file.
